


curtain call

by Ethereally



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Background Character Death, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Post-Golden Deer Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25903384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ethereally/pseuds/Ethereally
Summary: Fire devours their lances. The twin spears writhe violently, swallowed by flame. Sylvain and Ingrid’s Relics thrash in their pyre, sinew melting off bone, and all Sylvain can do is stare, haunted, as their weapons fall apart.Sylvain and Ingrid have a ceremonial burning for their Heroes' Relics after they are wed.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 40
Kudos: 55





	curtain call

**Author's Note:**

> this was done for the #writingstyleblend challenge, in which i was challenged to not use vivid descriptions, cut down the pov character's overthinking, not to rely on comedic timing for humor, and to not make dick jokes. this last part was very challenging in a fic that involved twitching relic weapons. 
> 
> i'm not sure how successful i was, but i had fun!

Fire devours their lances. The twin spears writhe violently, swallowed by flame. Sylvain and Ingrid’s Relics thrash in their pyre, sinew melting off bone, and all Sylvain can do is stare, haunted, as their weapons fall apart. The embedded Crest Stones glower back, their judgmental eyes seething. Sylvain squeezes Ingrid’s hand.

“How’re we doing?”

Ingrid nods. “I’m fine.” 

Her veil’s slightly askew. Her hair’s matted with ash, sweat and grime. But every glimpse Sylvain gets of Ingrid makes his heart stop, and Sylvain’s got half a mind to screw propriety, grab her cheeks, and kiss her senseless. Ingrid refused makeup for their wedding on the grounds that it would all melt off. Annette must have giggled, thinking Ingrid was referring to the sudden Wyvern Moon heatwave, the unexpected second flash of summer that sent Sylvain into a snarling, cursing mess. 

Annette didn’t know how Sylvain and Ingrid had locked pinkies in bed three nights ago. They’d been sleepless in the startling heat, and the thought had hit him quick and frenzied like a Meteor spell. He’d lowered his voice, buzzing with the mad high of a bright idea, and asked Ingrid, quietly, if she’d lay their Relics to rest.

She’d pressed a kiss on his forehead, a tacit affirmative. 

The flames swallow the Crest Stones, which emit a high-pitched shriek. Sylvain winces. A funereal bonfire right after their wedding might seem like Sylvain-typical morbid fun, a spectacle made from a joyous occasion. Mentioning it to any of his classmates would make them raise a brow, dismissing it as yet another macabre joke. He’s wildly amazed that Ingrid agreed without cajoling. 

Her head rests on his shoulder, and her dress’ tulle scratches Sylvain through his dress shirt. He’s got half a mind to ask if she’d prefer to change into a tunic and slacks, something less stuffy and more  _ Ingrid _ , but there’s something strangely poignant about all this. There’s some twisted symbolism about this act, Ingrid in her bridal gown and Sylvain in a rumpled suit, the two of them sitting on the ground in the wake of their wedding. 

Soot floats through the air to rest on her cream-colored skirt. Ingrid’s attempt to brush it off results in a big, grey stain on the fabric. She sighs.

“The poor Nabateans. They didn’t deserve any of this. I hope this finally lays them to rest.”

Sylvain presses a kiss to the side of her mouth. “Tell me about it.” Even remembering the Relics’ origin was enough to make bile spring to his throat. He’d always known this continent was built on ruin, and these weapons were tools of pure violence, but learning that they were crafted from Nabatean bones had sent disgust crawling through his veins. Claude had told them the truth at a war council meeting, and Sylvain trembled the next time he’d grabbed the Lance of Ruin. He was barely able to maintain his grip on it when skewering Gautier’s corpse during their final battle. It had taken all his self control to not spit in his ancestor’s face, and he’d settled with gripping his teeth, screaming  _ fuck you _ as Gautier collapsed into a heap on the ground. 

Destruction runs in their blood, made more potent by the Crests the two of them bear. Their union intertwines two of Fódlan’s most ruinous bloodlines. He and Ingrid’s flesh is stitched together by suffering and harm, and maybe that’s why she’d been so keen to join him. 

After all the harm their ancestors have done? A tribute to the Nabateans is the least they can do. 

Sylvain pushes strands of hair from Ingrid’s face. The bonfire dances in her kind eyes, and he sees himself reflected in them as well: forehead marred with frown lines, crow’s feet, a lip scar. Yet in the mirror of Ingrid’s eyes he’s more hopeful than he’s ever been. Sylvain’s mouth might be framed with wrinkles, but at least his smile is real, a bright grin that shows his dimples and lights up his face. That’s more than he could say about the Sylvain of the past. Go figure. He gets up and stretches. 

“Want me to get some wine? We can give the dead a toast.”

Ingrid’s lips part in excitement, and fuck, Sylvain’s amazed at how  _ that _ alone’s enough to make his heart do a little twist. 

“Wine sounds great. Oh, can you grab some cheese and grapes? All the drinking’s going to make me hungry.” 

Ingrid had gotten a little red-faced during the earlier festivities. She’d flitted from table to table at their wedding party threatening to duel their friends, waving the sword she’d used to cut their cake above her head like a banner. Sylvain hadn’t had the heart to tell Ingrid that the blade was too dull for battle, and elected to erupt into peals of laughter instead. At least she’s sobered up now. Sylvain beams back.

“Sure thing."

He returns with a bottle of cheap Pinot Noir, green grapes, and brie cheese, Ingrid’s favorite. The cork leaps from the bottle with a pop, and Sylvain pours a glass of wine for Ingrid, and then a glass for him. He takes a sip. Not bad, considering they’d drank Gautier dry of its expensive liquor a few hours ago. Ingrid sets her glass down.

“I... I wish Dimitri and Felix were here. Do you think they’d be happy for us?”

“Yeah,” Sylvain lies, before catching himself in the act. She’ll see right through him. He laughs nervously. “Uh, actually, I’m not sure. We sure did give up on finding Dimitri and go back to our old class, didn’t we? Felix was furious.” 

Ingrid frowns. She blinks, and her nose crinkles in a way that means she’s about to cry. “But he was right. Dimitri  _ was _ alive. And we barely got to speak to him before he was killed--”

The last remnants of the Crest Stones scream before they’re swallowed by unyielding flames.

Sylvain bites the inside of his mouth. He swirls the wine in his glass, noting the bitter aftertaste. Ingrid’s staring at the ground, shaking, and tense, aching guilt twists in him like a knife. He grabs his suit jacket from where it lays on his lap, throwing it around her.

“We did what we had to do,” he says. Surprisingly enough, it had been Ingrid’s idea to return to Garreg Mach. Sylvain had been dogged, hell-bent on continuing their hunt, until she’d mentioned the funds from their search party were bleeding Galatea dry. Joining up with the Alliance had been the right political move for Galatea, ensuring its protection, but Ingrid still gets misty-eyed every time she thinks of their friends, their corpses strewn across Gronder Field. 

Sylvain wraps his arm around Ingrid, pulling her in closer. Her voice shakes as she speaks. 

“It- it’s still so much to take in. I can’t believe Those Who Slither in the Dark orchestrated the Tragedy of Duscur. Maybe if we’d known that earlier, I could have found a way to make Dimitri see sense. We could have worked together--”

“Ingrid,” Sylvain says, bending over to kiss her nose, “You did what you had to do for your people. Think of the resources Galatea’s gotten since the war. Think of--”

“You’re right,” she says, “And I- and I know I made the right choice. But there are people who should be here. I wish I believed in ghosts. Dimitri and Felix could have been here...”

She trails off. Sylvain doesn’t rescind his grip. Ingrid takes another sip of her wine, sniffing as she chokes back tears. He rubs circles into her back until she speaks again.

“I’m... I’m glad to be alive. I’m glad that  _ we’re _ alive. Does that make me a bad person?”

“Not at all,” Sylvain says softly. “I’d rather be here than some ghost. We lived, so we’ve got to make a better future.”

Silence befalls them as Ingrid gets up to smooth out her dress. The back’s been soiled with dirt, but Sylvain hopes to hope that she’ll never wear it again. 

“A better future without atrocities like these... No more war, no more suffering, no more Crests.”

“That would be great,” Sylvain says. He gets to his feet as well, lifting his glass. “Let’s do one last toast for those who should have been here with us. How’s that sound?” 

Ingrid bends over to pick up her wine glass. Sylvain clears his throat, and they take turns to speak. 

“For the Nabateans.” 

“For Rodrigue.”

“For Dimitri.”

“For Felix.”

“For the future.”

Their glasses clink together. Sylvain downs his fill. Ingrid tastes like smoke and red wine, and the warmth that blooms inside him isn’t from the fire. 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm about 99% sure that this fic was inspired by [Pyre](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25296949) by eyegnats, which you should read for a very different kind of ceremonial burning. 
> 
> thank you evie for proofreading! find me on twitter at @gautired, and feel free to [retweet](https://twitter.com/gautired/status/1294390555980394496?s=20) this fic if you enjoyed it.


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